


an unexpected suspicion

by siriuslydraco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:28:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslydraco/pseuds/siriuslydraco
Summary: Arya suspects something is going on between the King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so for this we're just going to pretend episode six never happened lol

The snow starts to fall when Jon comes back, war weary and frail of heart. He tells them, Brienne and Pod curiously eyeing him, of the things he has seen, and the things they must still defeat once he is finished embracing his little sister in the snow. It is odd for him to feel her small body in his arms, much the same as it once was when she had embraced him after he had given her Needle, but things have changed greatly now. Arya is no longer the childish and doe eyed Stark he once trained with in the mud, but someone completely different, a hardened replica of the sister he once knew. Her eyes are no longer alight with the dream of being a knight or a hero of battle, but they are darkened by the horror of the past. 

She looks so much like him now that he finds he can think himself a Stark with just a little bit more surety than before, but always in his own mind and never aloud. She is grey and black against the white snow, just like him, and just like Jon she is hardened by war. No matter how much she smiles at his return he knows she can not hide it. He wants to whisk her away and ask her every detail of the past years she has been missing. _I thought her dead_ , he thinks, _but here she stands before me._ He wishes to know everything and nothing all at once, for he is afraid of what she may tell him that she has been through. They've all had to do unspeakable things to survive. 

He is about to open his mouth to tell her yet again how much he's missed her, but there is a shadow of crimson red and raven black from the corner of his eye and he is altogether stopped in his movements. His eyes that have looked into those of the Night King, sweep along snow and stone to come to hers; the Lady of Winterfell. Arya is almost ready to huff where she stands at the audacity of Sansa interrupting them in their moment of reunion, but she has to remind herself that he is Sansa's brother too. It is easy to forget sometimes when she remembers all too well how she had ignored him growing up. 

"Your Grace" Sansa's voice is quiet, and Arya finds it odd how it shakes at the end. Sansa is so stoic and monotone most of the time that Arya has wondered whether her tormentors have altogether rid her of emotion, or whether the real Sansa is locked away deep inside her. But here she stands in the snow, Jon's giant direwolf beside her, and her eyes are welling with something that looks like tears. But they can not be, she had not even cried while she'd embraced Arya in the crypts. Surely she would not weep for Jon. 

Jon vanishes from her side then and Arya _does_ huff this time, her Stark eyes burying into the snow that falls upon the grounds of Winterfell. Arya has not seen Jon in years, and Sansa already had the luxury of reuniting with him once before, so she can not fathom how Jon rushes to the red haired lady's side and abandons hers. 

"Sansa" he says, and Arya is struck with a memory that has her reeling at the way Jon has spoken. It swirls around them in the snow, and laces and dances itself through the frost that falls upon the flagstones, and the softness with which Jon says her name warms Arya in a way she wishes it hadn't. _Cat, my dearest Cat._ Her father's voice is hidden within Jon's, and her mother's name is a ghost that haunts Sansa's. 

She lets her eyes wander towards them then, to see how truly honest Sansa is at displaying happiness. Arya's suspicions are proven true at first, when she sees that Sansa has no smile on her face or is not wrapping her arms around her brother like she had just done. Jon does not swing her around and hold her tightly and whisper _I've missed you, little sister_. He does not muss her hair once her feet are back on solid ground or smile at her in a way that splits ones heart in two with joy. 

No, these two do not do that, they are straight backed and regal as they stand before one another and Arya watches curiously from where she stands. Sansa is flagged by the Lady Knight and the jolly faced squire Podrick, who Arya will not admit she has grown to be fond of. Glee and a childish sort of spite aches from within the place that she has buried the old Arya, and she wishes to stick her tongue out and declare that _she_ is in fact Jon's favourite sister. For how can Sansa be when he does not greet her so warmly? Sansa had promised Arya that she and Jon were now as close as any of the Stark siblings had been, but she had not believed her sister. 

Perhaps she would have still believed it, if she hadn't witnessed both their courtly facades dropping. 

It is her flame haired sister, the one that wears an invisible crown, that breaks it first. She seems to burst through her own skin, a smile so big and beautiful appearing on her face so suddenly it is almost like she has been wanting to beam so brightly for the longest time. Arya has learned to test the boundaries of the strongest people, to pick out their defenses and weaknesses, and unlike most she can spot habits and fidgeting tendencies and their meanings that might go unnoticed by most. She notices them now, twitching movements and guarded emotions, and all of them lie between her brother and sister. 

Sansa who is so normally graceful and careful in her movements bounces slightly on her feet like she is awaiting something, and Jon clenches and straightens out his hands so often it becomes a hilarious spectacle. Everything about them is off, but whatever atmosphere their awkwardness has created is hanging tangible in the air and she becomes suddenly aware that she is not the only one who watches them. All around are lords and ladies, and bannermen that are scrambling off the ground on stiff joints as they now stand to eye the King and the Lady. 

"I am most glad that you are back, Jon" Sansa tells him, placing her hands in fists and putting them in front of her. It is almost like she does not wish to touch Jon for some reason, and a bitter annoyance rises within Arya. Perhaps she smiles at the well being of their brother, but maybe not all that much has changed between them since childhood. 

"I've missed you, Sansa" he does not call her _little sister_ , as he had called Arya, but he repeats her name in that wistful romanticism that causes an uncommon feeling of tension to arise in her. 

It's so unsettling to the young girl to find something so puzzling and hard to figure out. Her head is cramped most of the evening and well into the night after Jon and Sansa disappear together to discuss matters with Ser Davos, Brienne, and that red haired wildling who Arya desires to spar next time at practice. But long after their counselors once again roam freely about the castle and drink ale in the great hall, her siblings are still nowhere to be seen. 

"Leave them be child, they have not seen each other in so very long. They have much to discuss" Ser Davos, a kindly man with a wrinkled brow tells her with a soft smile when she asks if he has seen them "now come and tell us all about Braavos, eh?" 

She does not wish to sit and tell these people about her days across the sea, but she finds she has no other choice. She reveals to them certain details of her mysterious time as a Faceless Man, omitting gruesome truths to spare herself the memories. They listen with keen ears, and Tormund as she has learned him by name, keeps laughing and asking her how such a _tiny little girl_ can be such an experienced killer. She only smiles menacingly and offers to show him in the training yard and they laugh and ask her for more stories of her mysterious travels which she obliges with as she takes a swig of ale. But no matter how much she talks to distract herself, she is all consumed with another mystery, and it lies with a king and a lady. 

* * *

 It becomes apparent within the next few days that Sansa has a talent much akin to Aryas. Her stoic and ladylike sister also has the unusual knack of changing her face and voice in certain circumstances. But unlike Arya, Sansa does not wear the face of someone else entirely. She does not take on the features of someone long dead, but rather turns to something as similar as a stone carving in the presence of Petyr Baelish or anyone else who offers her unwise counsel. She reminds Arya of their aunt Lyanna's statue that rests in the crypts whenever she is smooth faced and dull voiced.

It had been Aryas wildness that had always shared a likeness to her aunt, and once or twice her father had mentioned how they had shared a common look. But now however Arya can see that Sansa is the same as the cold granite that rests above Lyanna's bones. How perfectly proper it is, Arya thinks, for her to be so marble and stoic just like their mother had been once. Of course Sansa would want to emulate that same frostiness the Lady Catelyn so graciously embodied, and she wears it well. It is not until the snow starts to stick that Arya realises her hardened expressions are not immortally placed atop her once smiling beauty.

The air is dangerously cold, every small puff of air that Arya let's out turns to a whirl of white cloud that stays stagnant in the air for moments after. She is lithe and graceful, just like the rushing of a stream, but even Arya knows to take extra care along the balconies of Winterfell. Syrio Forel's memory is in each light movement she takes, a true and graceful water dancer as she walks atop the layer of ice that has clung to the wooden battlements. It is early in the morning, and most of the castle still sleeps, save for a few horses who swish their tails and servants who stand idly in dull corners while trying to warm their hands. 

Walking and waking early is crucial to her routine, and there is nothing like the sight of snow and the harsh chill to clear ones head. It is crammed nowadays with things she wishes hadn't been put there. Jon's unsettling speech on how Daenerys did not take too kindly to his refusal to bend the knee is one that has taken root inside her, and the fact that Cersei and the Night King are still undefeated makes her sleep less easy at night. But at least she can revel in the fact that her brother is now safe within the walls of Winterfell, where he will stay until it is time to leave once again for yet another war he has to fight. Arya will join him when the time comes, and will have to forge a new blade other than the slight one by her hip if she is intent with the notion of protecting her brother. 

The sound of swords clashing ring throughout Winterfell and she is immediately struck by it, the sound demanding her attention. She wonders if perhaps the thought of battle has made her imagine the sound, but when she listens more intently she hears that it is no more than the dull clacking of wood on wood. Arya is drawn to the sound as she casts herself among the early morning shadows, and she is sure to conceal herself within them. She does not wish for anyone to interrupt her early morning sleuthing, and she does not wish for a servant to see her and interrupt her deep train of thought with a low and gracious murmur of _Lady Arya_. 

She perches herself within an alcove of stone and lets her eyes fall upon the snow covered training yard. Her eyes, grey as winter, widen in surprise when the sight before her fully impacts her mind. Upon the snow, looking like a princess from one of Old Nan's stories with her red hair and emerald colored dress, is the Lady of Winterfell herself. She is laid back on the thin layer of white downy frost that covers the ground, hair and cloak splayed out around her and Arya can not help but admire her obvious beauty. There is a smile on her face and her chest is heaving with heavy breaths as she laughs; the sound so glorious that it almost makes Arya roll her eyes. 

The sight of her sister spread atop the snow is not however what strikes her most. It is the wooden practice sword that is clutched in her hands that renders her confused, and of course the image of their brother, looming over her as he stands is another thing Arya finds she must question. What were they doing out here so early? But she knows she is not one to have the audacity to ask such a thing, for she too is stalking the morning. 

"You couldn't have gone easier on me, no?" the lady speaks raggedly, earning a chuckle from the King. 

"Do you think a wight will go easy on you?" his voice is light, but there is a warning underneath it that Arya picks up on all too well. She guesses Sansa does too when her smiling expression falters a little, but it almost immediately reappears when Jon extends a hand to her "do you want to try again?" 

"Perhaps enough of swordplay" Sansa tells him as she dusts off her velvet skirts "you did promise to show me how to use a bow" 

Arya lets a small smile escape her lips, a memory clawing its way through the iron she carries within, but she pushes it back down. They were simpler times then, when she had upstaged her brothers at archery, but these are not those times. Death marches for Winterfell, and she can see that Sansa knows that too, she can see it in her straight shoulders and hard eyes. Perhaps that is why she has asked Jon for help with fighting. 

"Sansa maybe we should just leave it at that for the day" there is something tight in Jon's voice, something rough and strained and Arya can not place where it has come from all of a sudden. Sansa steps towards him in the snow, her face soft and so unlike the one she wears around her advisers. It's almost like she's looking at a different person, but Arya has to remind herself that she has seen this expression on her sisters face all too much lately. The look of admiration and awe is only worn around their brother. 

It is odd to watch them when they are alone, since they are so different and yet so very similarly behaved to how they are with others. Arya had once caught Sansa holding Jon's hand under the table at a council meeting, one where Jon did not like anything Lord Baelish had to say. She had thought to question the action but had never voiced it aloud, perhaps giving breath to such thoughts would only sour Jon towards her.

"It's embarrassing enough that I can't defend my people should the time come, and I don't want a sword to be my only defense" her voice is so quiet that Arya strains to hear it as she's perched within the alcove and she can not lean closer in fear of being caught. 

"You shouldn't have to have a sword" it's a mumble that is dripping with sullenness and although Jon's back is to her, Arya can imagine his bottom lip jutted out and his eyebrows furrowed "if you would just listen to me and go somewhere safe like Essos or -" 

"Jon" Sansa's voice is stern but never harsh, not when she says Jon's name. It is always spoken with such conviction, like she would rather say his name and nothing else each time she spoke "we didn't take back Winterfell for me to run and hide. I'll protect it. I'll protect our family, no matter what. You said it yourself we have to fight for each other if for nothing else" 

There is an air then that settles itself around them and wavers all the way to where Arya sits, narrowed eyed and intent of mind, and it cloaks her in a feeling she wishes she could shrug off. But it has niggled her since Jon has come home, and she hates to admit it, only since he stood beside Sansa. There is no boyish look of summer in his features now, and although he is the same inside, his little sister can tell that he has completely changed on the outside. Whenever Arya looks at Jon she can imagine even more clearly the face of her father. 

And when Sansa is beside him, flame haired and Tully eyed, she is the very embodiment of their mother. How very like the Lord and Lady of Winterfell they are. 

She shifts on the icy seat she's perched in and a shiver wracks through her despite her being wrapped in layers of northern clothing, but it has nothing to do with the cold. Here before her are two incarnations of the parents she had lost, and she can not take comfort from it. She'd never had much fondness for ghost stories. Her eyes that had misted over now blink and shift back to where the two shadows of people long dead stand within the training yard. Sansa is now fiddling with a bow, and the childish part of Arya wants to tell her she's holding it wrong, but she stays tight lipped within the alcove. 

"Here let me help" Jon's voice is a soft chuckle, and something akin to a blush spreads across Sansa's face as she puts down the red ended arrow and bow. Jon is hesitant at first to touch her, Arya can plainly see the emotion flicker across his face as his hands stall in front of him. But whatever stalling intentions he had before are altogether abandoned when Sansa looks at him with hooded eyes and lips that are parting to let the frozen winter air escape. He takes her then, two hands on her waist as he firmly turns her towards the targets. 

He doesn't let her go afterwards, not like father or Robb would have done when showing Arya how to stand properly, but leaves his strong hands around her slight frame as he gently guides her back to rest near his chest. He's saying words to her now that Arya can not hear, and no training in Braavos could have equipped her with hearing as well as she needs in this moment. So she sits and watches them, like she does most waking minutes these days, with a genuine curiosity and a reeling heart. 

She has noticed that Jon smiles most with Sansa, and how his hand clenches around his mug of ale at dinner or counsel meetings whenever a man compliments the Lady of Winterfell. She can not deny that he has a ferocity about him that is reserved for Sansa and Sansa alone, or how he coughs and stammers each time she walks in to the great hall for dinner. Arya has seen less and less of the cold and marble Lady Stark when they are tucked away in Jon's solar late at night, while she sits with Ghost on a rug and lets her two older siblings converse. She is not placid or stoic with Jon, but soft and gentle and much like the maidens she used to sing about and she no longer wears black so much. 

A groan of utter frustration rings clear throughout the yard and Arya looks to see that Sansa's arrow is nowhere near the black bulls eye, it is in fact nowhere near the target at all but on the ground, half buried in snow. Jon now offers her words of encouragement as he takes her hand and guides it back onto the bow. Her sweet sister looks all but ready to give up, but there must be something in Jon's face that Arya can not see that makes her once again try to shoot the arrow from the bow. He holds her steady, his hands once again claiming her waist and there is something so unsettling about their actions that reminds Arya of how Cersei looked at Jaime here in Winterfell so many years ago. 

She is distraught and horrified that she would even think such things. She has kept such a close eye on Sansa around their brother in fear that she will betray him, but never has she thought that their closeness may bring on such thoughts. But there is something between them that is heavy and makes the air rife with an unconsummated excitement, one that dies all too quickly or is broken by someone else. She wishes to break it now, to clear her throat or to announce her presence, but she finds that she is rooted where she sits. 

There is no whip of arrows through the air, only breathing. And it is heavy. Both Sansa and Jon are still standing in the snow, and Sansa still holds the bow in her although now it is limp by her side. But Jon's hands are wrapped around her waist like he wishes to hold nothing else. Arya feels, as she is perched on her seat like a watchful bird, that she should look away as if she has stumbled onto some moment only meant for the two before her. It is like she is peeking through a curtain into a different world and should not be allowed to look upon the gazes they are giving each other. There is little space between them, but it is closed completely when Jon guides her towards him by the hands he holds around her. 

Arya's heart is pounding in her chest, and it takes every will inside her to stop herself from screaming as Sansa leans forward. _Stop_ , she wants to shout, _that's our brother! She's your sister!_ But there is little she can do if she does not wish to be seen, so she sits there with a thumping heart and a twisting stomach as she imagines that they are about to do something that siblings should not initiate. But whatever outcome was to be is ended sharply as Jon pulls away, hands and eyes dropping from the flame haired beauty. 

"Jon, I didn't mean to -" Sansa rushes towards him, her bow being cast to the snowy ground as she attempts to correct whatever sin she had just meant to act on. But Jon just steps away from her, hard eyed and red faced and she stops herself from moving towards him. 

"I have to go. Lady Stark" his final words are ice, and they do not hold any of the former romanticism with which he has chosen to speak with of late. It is instantaneous, the change in her sister, as she stands straighter and clasps her hands in front of her and eyes Jon with a hardness she did not have moments before. 

"Your Grace" it almost sounds like a jibe the way she says it, so curtly and sharp and Jon only hesitates for a moment before he turns on his heels and marches from her; his snowy footprints the only real indication that he was there at all. Madness possesses her then, and Arya moves lithely from where she has sat through this odd exchange, to stand within the morning light. She does not attempt to hide the sound of her foot falls now, and she is giddily satisfied when Sansa looks up to find the sounds source. 

Blue locks on grey, and Arya can almost taste the shock that alights the Tully color with a vibrancy that Arya can see even from way up where she is. Sansa may look thrown, but she does not look away, and Arya tries to tell her with her eyes alone that she has seen everything. But Sansa already knows, it is apparent in every bat of her eyelashes as she blinks and every tremor in her face as she tries to conceal her displeasure. Sansa is the first to look away and Arya clenches her jaw as she watches her figure, red hair and emerald green skirts billowing against the snow as she walks away. 

It is clear then what story lies between those lingering gazes and tender touches from the king and the lady, and a fiery fury builds itself within Arya that she almost feels that she can swallow it down. Her eyes narrow as they watch Sansa, and her mind tells her that her suspicions must be correct. It is not a fondness or an admiration that Sansa shows their brother. It is all a ploy, and Arya knows what for; a devious smile spreading across her Stark features.  

_I know what you intend, sweet sister._

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the comments on the first part of this story! so glad you've all loved it!

Her footsteps echo down the hallway of ice covered stone; the darkness swallowing Arya like she is nothing more than a shadow. Her sisters chambers await her down the narrow path of rough brick, and Arya eyes the half lit door with a discontent that settles itself in her stomach like a coiling snake. The Lady Brienne normally guards her doorway with such a fierce loyalty that she almost seems routed to the spot whenever she stands straight backed and tight lipped near the chambers- but she is no where to be seen. Without the looming presence of Lady Tarth's shadow the task of interrogating the Lady of Winterfell becomes easier, and Arya can not help but place a cunning smile on her lips. 

She does not knock as she nears the heavy door- but fists the iron ring and pushes it open. It does not seem as heavy as it once had been as she swings it open now, and for a moment Arya remembers how she used to push her way into these chambers when she'd had a nightmare. These were after all, Mother and Father's rooms. Why Jon had given them to Sansa was a question Arya still had no answers for. The thought of Jon that crosses her mind then makes the snake within her stomach hiss and coil even tighter. 

Her sister- as beautiful as fallen snow- sits beneath the window with a fold of fur upon her lap; her hands trembling as she holds a needle in her fingers. She does not look up when Arya enters, but Jon's giant direwolf stands to attention as soon as he hears her footfalls. Ghost is hardly ever away from Sansa's side, and if an outsider were to watch them it would almost seem like he was always Sansa's wolf and never Jon's. Arya has seen Jon watch them though; his eyes of Stark grey eyeing his wolf and the Lady, but sometimes the beast looks back with a fierceness in his red eyes that almost makes Arya believe the wolf and her brother have some sort of agreement. 

He bounds up with breaths that are heavy and ragged and Arya lets him sniff her hand, his massive head now nearly reaching her shoulder. She often thinks of Nymeria when she looks at Ghost, and something painful is resurrected inside her. The past woven within herself tugs and pulls at her; begging to be remembered but she shoves it back down. It is the present she must think on. Always the present. 

"Arya" Sansa greets with a voice quiet and strained. Arya tears her eyes away from the ones akin to weirwoods and to the blue ones of her sister. She is half cloaked in the flames of the roaring fire that blazes within the hearth and is also half hidden in the darkness that blankets the North outside. When she is like this- half obscured- she looks more like their mother than ever. _Come here my little wolf_ , she hears Lady Catelyn's voice, and pictures her arms widening to engulf her in. The memory makes Arya take a step forward, but the present pulls her back. _Sansa is not my mother,_ she tells herself, _she is my sister. And Jon is not Lord Eddard_ , a cruel voice whispers in her ear. 

"Lady Sansa" Arya greets back, a tight sort of bitterness well hidden in her tone. Sansa looks up from the folds of material she is working on and eyes Arya with those Tully blue depths narrowed suspiciously. 

"I've told you before Arya, my name is Sansa. Just Sansa. There's no need to call me Lady Sansa when we're alone" she turns her attention back to the furs upon her lap, and Arya can see when Sansa rolls them out that it is a cloak, lined in fur and strapped with leather. The Stark wolf sigil carefully imprinted on the surface. 

"It's like the one Father used to wear" Arya hadn't meant to say it, but the words are out of her mouth before she can stop herself, and Sansa once again lifts her eyes to meet her sisters. Sansa shifts then on the stone seat she's perched on and sniffles deeply- a hand running over her cheek. As Arya looks more carefully and steps a fraction closer, she can tell that there are deep circles beneath her sisters eyes and where she looked so porcelain and pretty, she now looks blotchy and pale. 

"Yes, it is" her sister is quiet, and Arya can see the evidence of tears embedded on her skin "I've made it for Jon" 

So softly she speaks their brothers name, and how hard it hits Arya. She clenches her jaw from where she stands and tries her hardest to not make her anger prominent, but she fails miserably when she feels her fists clenching on their own. Arya often watches, with her wolf eyes, as her sisters steps are shadowed by Littlefingers and how he whispers unseemly things in her ear. Arya can only guess the whispers are intent with poisoning her sister with thoughts of betrayal; and sometimes when Sansa eyes Jon with icy glares and pursed lips Arya fears she means to act on Petyr's wishes. 

But then here she sits, making a cloak for him before he leaves to meet with the Dragon Queen, her eyes red from crying and her lips chewed dry. She is a paradox; a contradiction and Arya does not know what shape of her sister to believe in. The cunning and striking snake or the grieving maiden. 

"For Jon" Arya hears herself saying, the Faceless Man that lives within her taking root and making venom drip in her tone "how nice of you" 

"Arya?" Sansa questions with a furrowed brow; something in her eyes lighting with an understanding of why her little sister is now shadowed in fury "I sense you mean to say something to me. I know you saw Jon and I, and I know you question it" 

"Question it?" she fumes, thinking back on the memory of how her sister and brother had pressed their bodies close; icy breaths whirling in clouds around them and hearts beating as close as lovers "I mean to question _you_ , sweet sister. You never loved Jon. _Never_. And yet you seek to twist his mind and clutch onto him now that he is crowned a King. I know what you intend" 

"And what is it? What is this grievous thing I am intending?" she is their mothers shadow then as she stands, casting the cloak aside. She is ghostly pale, and the shock of red hair upon her head makes her look as white as the moon that shines behind her. Arya does not fear much, but looking at her sister in all her terrifying beauty makes her think that she _should_ be afraid of her. Or that weak hearted people should fear the Lady of winter. Her trembling hands- her fingers running with blood from the pricking of her needle- shake by her side and Arya can sense that beneath her cold exterior Sansa fears something. Does she fear the dagger that rests by Arya's side? Or does she fear the thought that Arya now knows why she stands beside the King?

"I see you. I see you and Lord Baelish whispering to each other" Arya tells her with hard eyes. She can sense Ghost shift from the fire cast shadows, to stand beside Sansa. The wolf's loyalty should not rest with her, Arya thinks. 

"And what pray tell am I whispering about? A betrayal most likely, of Jon, I'm guessing. Perhaps I want Winterfell for myself, is that it? Do not think me a fool, Arya, I am not one. I do not let Littlefinger inside my head" Sansa tells her, looking away and into the roaring fire that casts the room in an orange glow. 

"I see the way you are with Jon, the way you laugh, the way you pretend. You hated Jon when we were children, you hold no love for him. I know you wish for him to name you Queen so you can rule in his stead" 

Sansa glares at her sister so fiercely that Arya can feel pieces of what's left of her soul indent with the sharpness of her blue eyes. There is hate buried within them, but it's far away and it's not there for Arya. She feels rather, that Sansa is now filled with a self remorse she's hidden deep inside herself. 

"I love Jon" Sansa whispers as she turns away, and the words are said more to the flames before her than to Arya. There is something in her words that bristle Arya uncomfortably "I've always loved Jon. I just hid it well. But Jon is my brother, and he is my King and I will never betray him nor will I ever betray this family"

Arya eyes the cloak that lies in folds of fur upon the stone window ledge, the pricks of dripping scarlet that falls from her sisters fingers and the dried tracks of tears upon her cheeks. Her sister has no need for theatrics when she is alone, and Arya can not fathom why she'd cry here in her chambers for their brother if the intent was not genuine. But something in the back of her mind will not budge from her seat of stubbornness. 

"I want to believe you" she tells her sister, and she watches as the facade of stone drops from Sansa's face "but you are counseled in private by a traitor to the crown and a traitor to this family. Lord Baelish is not good company to keep, and when Jon is far from here in the clutches of a dragon you will take his seat for yourself. It's what you've always wanted. To be a Queen, to marry a handsome King" the soft looks and gentle touches between her siblings are resurrected in her mind, and the intent of them becomes as clear as it had when she'd seen them in the snow "perhaps that's why you pretend with Jon so greatly. You've said you learnt a great deal from Cersei Lannister, dear sister, and now I wonder just how much" 

"Do not speak in half truths or vagueness with me Arya. When you have something to say, say it and be done with it" Sansa's eyes are reflected with the fire- its blazing flames swirling like infernos within the blue seas that normally stay so calm. Arya shuffles on her feet steadily, one foot back, one foot forward. _Defensiveness_. Ghost watches her with narrowed eyes as he stalks the shadow of her elder sister, the looming silhouette of the direwolf cloaking Sansa immortally. 

"You know of what I speak. I can see it in your eyes" Arya tells her. Sansa's eyes may be blazing with fury, but there is an underlying fear in them that greatly pushes Arya towards the truth "you're afraid, but what are you afraid of? Is it the war? Is it the Lannisters? Or is the fear of me knowing what you intend the true reason you can not sleep at night? I know it Sansa, how you and Baelish have schemed to take Jon's throne, how you will marry him and murder him the first chance you can get" 

"Have you told this to our brother?" the Lady asks, a quiet storm brewing in her eyes "I would think the King should know if there was a definite plot against him. But you haven't have you? Because you know I would never betray my family"

Ghost rumbles low and rough then when Arya steps close to her sister- those Stark eyes as hard as the ancient stone that built the castle- and they do not leave the Tully sea of Sansa's as she stands before her. Arya can feel the soft bristle of Ghosts tail as he circles both sisters, pressing close enough to Arya in a warning. She feels betrayed almost, at the thought that the giant direwolf is more loyal and protective of her fair sister than to her. It had been Arya, always Arya, who had been closer to Jon. Why does his beast stalk Sansa's shadow with the ferocity of a guardian?

"I do not know anything" the young girl whispers low, eyes tracing every flicker on Sansa's face "I do not know you any longer, dear sister. I fear I do not know what you would do to this family"

The Faceless Men had taught her well, and the fact is plain and evident as she lets the shadows swallow her as she steps away. Arya no longer stands in the place she had moments before, but is now swallowed by the darkness at the entry to the Lady's chambers. She can still see Sansa, bathed in the warm candlelight and the glow of the fire, and her eyes take one last look at her tear stained face, wondering if the ones she had shed previously were all an act.

 _I love Jon_. The words echo in her mind as she shuts the heavy door with a resounding clang, and something within herself believes that such tender words could not be feigned. But hardness and suspicion take root once more when she is far away from Sansa's quarters, and once again joined with darkness; nothing more than a shadow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter guys! hope you've all enjoyed this story! and thank you so much to the jonsa fandom for being so lovely all the time and I'm so grateful to belong to a fandom so creative and warm! Love you guys!

The cold can kill, her father used to tell her. The snow can bite as hard as a direwolf and the frost can creep into your lungs and stop you breathing; just like the winter takes the summer it can also take your life. The Northerners had to be tough, hard like the ice and unforgiving like the cold. It's how they survived for ages past, and it's that same resilience that had made the Starks endure for so long. But there is now another sort of cold that takes a hold of Arya that has nothing to do with the climate of the North; it is a frost that seeps into her body and freezes her heart. It is the frozen taste of goodbye that makes her shiver.

She wonders then if the cold has finally taken her, if it has finally broken the hardened exterior she has built for so long. Now she trembles and shivers where she stands in the courtyard of Winterfell, allowing herself to feel the pain she has bottled for years. Jon will leave them today. And perhaps, says a cruel voice in her head, it will be the last time she'll ever see him.

She refuses to meet the eyes of her sister, who stands stoic and beautiful across the courtyard- a red fiery dash upon the porcelain snow. She fears of what she'll see in them if she does. An evil and slithering deception could rest behind those Tully eyes- or worse- she could look genuinely crestfallen. Perhaps seeing love in her eyes when she looks at Jon would be worse than anything. The shadow of Lord Baelish looms behind her, dark and devious, and it cloaks Sansa in a way that Arya can see no end to. No matter which way the Lady of Winterfell turns, Littlefinger is always there. It is the reason for this man, and this man alone, that Jon had requested Arya stay in Winterfell.

"But I can help you and the Dragon Queen fight! You know I could" she had pleaded with him under the fiery glow of candlelight. He had looked tired the night she had come to his chambers, a heaviness on her brothers shoulders that she wished she could take away. Fighting alongside him in war seemed the obvious task to take upon herself, but the King had refused.

"You must stay here. You're place is at Winterfell"

He had warned her then, in hushed but anger filled tones of the plotting ways of Lord Baelish. Arya wished to tell him that she feared Sansa had a hand in those plotting ways, but each time she tried to speak of her Jon would only wince aloud at the mention of her name. The closeness that they had once shared now seemed as dismal as the frozen ground. No longer did the King and the Lady discuss plans in hushed tones with their heads low, they did not seem to address each other with the wistful sigh of romanticism at the end of their names any longer, and Jon did not reach for her hand beneath the council table.

Although a suspicious one, the absence of Jon and Sansa's affection for one another was almost a relief to Arya. Perhaps the fair Lady of Winterfell had relented in her plotting, or maybe the King had suspicions of his own. Nevertheless the cause of it is forever a mystery in Arya's head. Jon acts as cold as ice, as regal as the Kings of Winter that rest below in the crypts but yet he is ready to protect Sansa whenever opportunity arises.

_She needs you, Arya. Protect her. For me._

Jon's words are nestled within the cold, and Arya shivers where she stands beside the Lady Brienne. The household has gathered to bid farewell to their King, but Arya is saying goodbye to her brother. If Jon were to fall in battle he would only be another King to perish in the fight for power, but to Arya he would be yet another person who the gods would see fit to take from her. He is there then, like a dark winged raven against the falling snow and his eyes akin to hers meet in the swirling haze of frost. Her heart aches in her chest in a way that hasn't since she witnessed her father being dragged before King Joffrey and Ilyn Payne. _It is a pain that is all consuming, and final. Will this be the last time I see my brother? Is it me who will perish in this great war or him?_

There is a horrible panic within the depths of his eyes and Arya can barely hold back the choking sob that threatens to crawl out of her mouth when he holds her close. He smells of lemon and lavender this close, and she wrinkles her nose at the familiar smell that not normally clings to the King in the north. It is a smell she has long associated with her only sister, the sweet fragrance an extension of her sisters prim and proper ways. _He smells of Sansa_ , she thinks as she narrows her eyes.

He musses her hair like he used to when they had been young and naïve to the world, but now instead of a carefree smile on his face there is one that doesn't brighten the world around her. It is sad just like his eyes, and he takes her in his arms once again and lets her go. His lips look bruised and swollen, but he places them on her hair and kisses her gently.  _Goodbye, little sister,_ he tells her but Arya says nothing. She only nods stiffly. She will not say goodbye. _Not now. Not ever._

He is before Sansa after he bids the Lady Brienne a farewell in the form of a stern handshake; his steps slow and his shoulders heavy. Arya does not miss how he bristles past Littlefinger and coldly ignores him. She watches intently as he steps close to the Lady- both of them like statues in the snow. Sansa is back to being the marble likeness of Lady Catelyn, Arya observes, and the dancing light within her eyes that had burned so brightly is now dimming. Along her cheeks are frozen tracks of tears- the evidence of an emotion Arya does not want to think her sister possesses. He is tentative with her, she witnesses, a gentleness radiating from him as he puts a finger under her chin and makes the red haired lady look at him.

She can not hear them from where she stands and can no longer see her sisters face behind the broad expanse of her brothers shoulders, but she can tell that whatever the King whispers is meant to be kept private since Jon has angled his body so no one else is near them. Arya feels once again that she is looking at something she shouldn't, and can not help but eye the similar bruises on the King and Lady's necks, the swollen redness to their lips and their hands that ache to touch. She adverts her eyes and grits her teeth until the shadow of Jon Snow is once again near her and away from her sister. She refuses to look at her sister or the gloating face of Petyr Baelish, but she can hear the pathetic sniffles coming from the Lady of Winterfell.

She does not look anywhere but her brother; her eyes staying fixed on him as he rides away and disappears in the curtain of falling snow.

* * *

The stain of crimson drips red against the snow- the bloody footprints embedded in the blanket of white that lays upon the frozen ground. Her hands are forever tainted with the blood of dying men but this time the kill is worth the taint on her soul. This time the stain belongs to Littlefinger- Lord Baelish had finally been served the death he had deserved and now Arya's heart does not weigh so heavy with folly accusations.

The Lady of Winterfell stands along the ramparts of the ancestral castle; yet another crimson shadow thrown against the snow. Arya's hands that have been balled into fists relax suddenly, and her heart that holds unsurmountable guilt plummets in her chest. Her sister, that she had been so quick to judge had been the one to end the scheming and plotting of Lord Baelish. Arya had wielded the knife; but Sansa had wielded justice.

Her sister stands upon the battlements of the castle most days- braving the cold and snow to gaze into the horizon. Arya knows who she waits for, who she wishes to see riding through the blanket of winter. But each day passes without the King, and each day the Lady of Winterfell becomes frailer. Her footsteps are light against the ground but she knows Sansa can hear her approach; she is stoic and granite like but she is as observant and keen eared as Arya.

"Arya" she solemnly greets, not taking those blue eyes off the distant horizon. Perhaps she imagines that Jon will one day come back to them, but it has been too long to hope anymore. He consorts with the Dragon Queen now, and has bent the knee to the woman that Arya now knows shares his blood. _Targaryen blood._ The word _cousin_ hangs heavy and distorted between them, and Arya can not help but think that Sansa may not grieve over the revelation as Arya does.

"Lady Sansa" Arya bows her head; genuinely this time unlike the times before. Her sister bristles where she stands, flickering her eyes towards her sister before letting them rest on the horizon again. _She thinks he'll never return._

"I've told you before, Arya. It's Sansa to you" she offers kindly, the edges of her lips turning up. She does not smile so widely any longer- not as brightly as she'd smiled around the King. But perhaps her smiles might come more freely in Jon's absence since the shadow of Lord Baelish is now vanished from her steps.

"But you _are_ the Lady of Winterfell" Arya tells her as she steps closer to the graceful frame of her sister "and I should have respected that before. I should have trusted you"

She thinks then of Sansa standing before the Northern court, eyes hard on her sister and mouth set thinly in a line of finality. Arya had thought it was the end for her; had thought foolishly that her own sister meant to execute her before the entirety of the Northern households. _How do you answer these charges, Lord Baelish._ Her sister's words had settled the deepest of shock within her then, but they bring with them a feeling of shame now. Her father's ghost, along with the stern one of her mother, must curse her from the heavens for ever thinking Sansa would betray them.

It was an utterly foolish notion to ever accuse her of, and Arya can not begin to understand how she ever came to hate her so. She loves her now, as she stands there in the snow with her, Littlefingers blood fresh between them and Arya wishes she could embrace her and beg for forgiveness. But they are not at that stage. Not yet.

"It's in the past now, Arya. Bury it with everything else. I don't wish to quarrel with you for the rest of our days" she's hardened, Arya realises, ever since Jon rode out those gates.

"It wasn't a simple quarrel" Arya shakes her head, blinking those grey eyes through the thin whirl of snow that falls upon them "I accused you of treason, of usurping Jon. I thought you meant to take his throne and kill him, Sansa. You should drag me out and behead me as I know you wish"

Sansa turns to her then with a solemn light in her eyes; a soft frown masking her pretty features. All the sadness and grief that has been deeply buried within her sister has all but been thrown forward these past months- it is plain to see when one gazes upon the porcelain beauty of the Lady Sansa. It is plain to see when Sansa allows it, Arya supposes, since her sister has gotten so talented at hiding her true feelings.

"I do not wish that" she speaks so softly that it's almost foreign; the height of tenderness in her voice "there has been discord between us, that is true. But you are my sister and I love you. I could never wish you gone"

"Will you accept my forgiveness?" Arya asks her as she stands ever closer to her. She looks so like their mother, so like Lady Catelyn that when Sansa is near it feels almost that she'd never lost her.

"Arya, there's nothing to forgive" her sister's voice is stern again and her eyes go back to the endless horizon of snow covered hills. She is weary of talk of forgiveness since she had enough of it with Lord Baelish while he had begged for his life. But Arya will not relent. She had thought her sister a villain, and she can not just bury that thought like Sansa wishes she would.

"Please, Sansa" is all she says; voice quiet and child like and her eyes even more full of guilt. Sansa only sighs and nods her head.

"You have my acceptance" she announces "but only if you forgive me. I should have told you what I had planned; that I never plotted to take Winterfell with Baelish. It can't have been easy on you seeing me with him, I don't blame you for what you presumed. I should have told you, and I'm sorry"

"You're forgiven" Arya smiles crookedly, peering at her sister through the downy snow "I suppose in the end it was better for Lord Baelish to believe that our family was already torn apart"

"I feel sometimes that it is" Sansa wistfully sighs and Arya knows of what she speaks "I haven't heard from Jon in months. No ravens. No letters"

"Jon will return to us, Sansa. I know he will" there is discomfort when she speaks of Jon now. The word cousin and the title of a Targaryen weighs heavy and poisonous on her tongue, and she refuses to say them aloud. But she can not speak of Jon with Sansa without thinking of them that day in the snow; bodies pressed close and breaths mingling in the frosty air. She can not help but remember their last goodbye- both with swollen lips and passionate marks on their necks.

"Do you know what Lord Baelish said to me before he died?" she asks, and Arya guesses that whether she wants to know or not Sansa is about to tell her "he told me that he believed Jon wishes to marry Daenerys Targaryen. I fear if he does then he will never return to me"

To me, she had said, not to us. Clearly the idea of Jon marrying Daenerys is something Sansa grieves over solitarily. Arya can not begin to understand what such a union would bring, but she does not fear it like Sansa does. It is a fact that bristles Arya more than anything; to think that her sister has chosen to lay her heart before their brother. _Cousin_ , the wind hisses. But it is now a thought untainted by treason and scheming. She simply loves him because her heart yearns for it. Perhaps Arya will never accept it, but she will try.

"When the war is over Jon will return" Arya says it with such conviction that she makes Sansa relax a little. From her graceful height she eyes Arya with a soft smile; one that she returns.

"I didn't mean to love him in such a way. But I do" her sister tells her "we don't get to choose who we love. Perhaps you can not understand that now"

Arya thinks then of her blue eyed Bull, and looks fondly towards the horizon.

"I can understand"

* * *

Winterfell is a castle in mourning when Jon returns. The North a frozen plain of death and grief that had all but been ravaged by the effect of the war; and it is a place that can not even rejoice at the sight of their King. He returns on the back of a black horse that stumbles more than Jon does when he finally throws himself from the worn looking saddle.

He all but collapses into the arms of Sansa.

Arya watches them now from where they sit by the fire- close together and touching each others hands every chance they get. Westeros had been torn apart by violence and death; there is no room for such things as common courtesy. Even the Lady Sansa does not care who witnesses their affections. As she looks at them she can not help but think that they are all the Stark lineage has left. Bran had perished in the Long Night; but Arya had grieved for him long before he had died. The Bran Stark she had known died when The Kingslayer had thrown him from the tower.

Her hands start to shake when Jon presses a light kiss to Sansa's knuckles; a pretty blush covering her sister's face. She should rejoice that Sansa has found some happiness in the aftermath of all this suffering, but she can not feel happiness. She does not even feel joy when she thinks of Gendry returning to her at last; or those stolen nights they spent together before the dead had marched on Winterfell. She only feels pain when she thinks of how they had burnt him beneath the weirwood.

The gods had claimed so much already, but Gendry was the hardest one to lose. She had refused then to bury him away in her mind with the rest of her family. She would not be strong for the sake of it. She cried and she cursed and she kicked; and had screamed into Sansa's shoulder before she had allowed herself to appear strong.

Her sister smiles then from where she sits at Jon's feet- her hands clasped tightly in his. They are too far away for Arya to hear what they say to one another; and she has no strength to even try to listen. But Sansa's smile is one so rare and beautiful that Arya can not help but feel jealous. She forgets what it feels like to smile. If she tried it now she feels her face would surely crack or fall of; just like those horrid masks she had worn so long ago. Now, she is just as lifeless as one.

She should feel safe, here in Winterfell with the little of family she has left, but she feels the cold now more than ever. Arya is now one remaining soul that filters through this dismal life while anticipating the next; but Jon and Sansa are one. She can plainly see that now as she gazes at them.

They are entwined truly- no matter how hard Arya wishes they weren't- and they do not even notice her leave.

* * *

 

She should be happy for them when Jon announces they are to be married. A wedding, he says, should cheer the North like nothing else. The Long Night is over, the Dragon Queen dead by Jon's hand and the realm had never seen more peace- a wedding should truly solidify the notion of peace. But Arya does not feel peaceful, nor happy. She feels nothing.

 _"I wish to be alone"_ is all she tells him, and returns to looking at her solemn reflection in the godswood spring. Gendry had died here. He had been burnt before the gods here. Here Arya will stay. Jon leaves her then with his dark eyes grieving for a sister who is not yet dead.

* * *

 

They are joyous together, Jon and Sansa, and Arya takes up the investigative hobby of watching them at feasts. It is intriguing to see how the hardened King Jon turns to a boy of summer whenever he is in the presence of his Lady. Sansa in turn becomes a blushing maiden from a song when Jon takes her hand and leads her to dance. _They make a fine couple,_ she hears from the servants and stable hands, _so like the Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn_. But Arya see's them as worn versions of the couple she saw in the snow, and of the brother and sister she grew up with.

* * *

 

The North slowly regains itself with the help of their King, and past deaths and battles do not weigh so heavy on people's minds. Even Arya has kept busy with rebuilding parts of the castle, and has now taken up the routine of sparring with the red haired wildling who always stands by Jon's side. The clashing of steel is a welcome distraction from the sound of her own sobs. The weirwood tree haunts the murky parts of her mind, and Gendry's dead face lies there too. She will take distraction in any form, and training with the large brute of a man is an occupation she takes comfort in.

* * *

 

She stands in the shadow of the same wildling as they face the gods that live in the weirwood; their eyes intent on the couple that stand before it. Sansa is a vision in green- she will not wear white, she says, she had worn it on her wedding night to Ramsay. Green is a summer colour, and it suits her. Arya can not help but eye her beauty with a pang of the jealousy she had felt during their childhood. Her red hair is long and dotted with sparkling jewels from Dorne, but the look in Jon's eyes outshine any diamond.

Perhaps she should be happy for them, Arya thinks, after all that they have been through. Here are two people who had lost almost everything; except each other. Had Gendry lived she would have married him here, and she knows that both Jon and Sansa would have been happy for her. She had thought them sinful and unjust, and had cruelly accused her sister of treason not long ago. But here Jon and Sansa stand in their purest forms; with smiles of peace and joy upon their faces.

She is guilty once again- this time of robbing them of her acceptance. But as Jon takes her sisters face in his hands, and presses a kiss to her lips, Arya lets herself do something she hasn't in a while. She _smiles._

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked! also I was thinking of writing this story again but this time from Sansa and Jon's POV so inbetween the lines can be filled in, what do you think?


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